


Wing Care 101

by Ozzyyy



Series: Same Universe Karlnapity [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (not current), AYO this one is really trauma based, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Dadza, Gen, He adopts everyone and thats the truth, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Neglect, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Quackity has duck wings bc thats such a good idea, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, bc why not ya know?, it seemed like they were chill with it, karl quackity and sapnap r all dating in this, lemme know if theyre not, phil's just a dad here to make sure everyone is ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozzyyy/pseuds/Ozzyyy
Summary: Listen, Quackity didn't know how to do any of this shit. He was just unlucky enough that he got a random pair of wings late in his life and now he had to deal with it. He just hates taking care of them. It hurts, every single time! Cue distressed dad noises.Teen and Up for graphic violence/ swearing
Relationships: (not a focus of), Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Series: Same Universe Karlnapity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145792
Comments: 188
Kudos: 2030





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: this one is dark on the implied abuse and trauma, read with caution! blood, injury, not extremely detailed tho. panic attacks and flashbacks, atmosphere gets real heavy. 
> 
> however i can't just end a fic on a dark note so it breaks that real quick, thank god for comedic relief, so rest assured it'll end up ok. also schlatt isn't a good person in this fic. as always, the things i write are a reflection of the streamer's character they play on the SMP, not their true self. nothing i write has a real indication of their personal life, and should be regarded as such. if any of them were to mention that this depiction of them makes them uncomfortable, i will delete it.

Problems under the rug were best left if swept there, Quackity decided one day. As if pure force of will could stop the oncoming molt his small duck-like wings would endure soon. 

It was a living goddamn nightmare to tend to them. When they first emerged, just before he ran for presidency, he'd been ecstatic. His mother had been an avian hybrid as well, and the wings had been a physical reminder of her presence, even far from home. He had spent weeks combing his fingers through the dull yellow-white eggshell feathers, carefully touching each one like it was pure gold.

And before he knew it, the molt had happened. Itchy pinfeathers growing in disgusting hardened waxy covers, bloody veins wiggling through the stark white. His mother had gone through this, he assumed he could too. Quackity had never seen her clip them or anything, just had to mist and live through it for a bit while it all healed up. 

Schlatt had other ideas on his care. And like the fool he was, Quackity had trusted him. He was another hybrid, maybe he understood the intricacy. So he snuck into his office long after dark and sat in that rickety wooden chair. He hadn't expected it to hurt this much. 

He hadn't expected there to be so much blood. 

Snip after snip, toughened razor sharp shears cut through pin feathers and his longer primaries. Blood gushed down his bent over backside, pooling under his feet. He'd barely been conscious for the entire event. But Schlatt had assured him, this was right. This is what he was supposed to do. This is how you care for feathers during a molt and the days after this, he was so nice. 

The day after, his wings felt so much lighter. But not better. Wrapped in gauze in some places, powder packed into pours to stop the bleeding. It hurt. It stung like a fucking bitch, but the warm touches he got felt so worth it. Schlatt would cup his face and hum him songs from his childhood. He'd let Quackity keep his hat on, even if he wanted him to take it off that day. He'd listen to his ideas more. 

He was the picture perfect image of a president, the days after he molted. And if Quackity had to give up flight and a painless existence to see that man smile, so proud, at him? He'd do it. 

And then Schlatt was dead. On one hand, he was fucking relieved. Schlatt was a dictator, emphasis on the 'dick'. Murderous, dreadful, blood thirsty. 

But Quackity knew he couldn't go through this molt alone. He didn't want to cut through his wings, he didn't know how to angle himself to clip the primaries. He couldn't bring his shaky hands to snip through the pin feathers, feeling the phantom sting and slip of blood through his fingers. 

The itch didn't leave. Quackity tried to ignore it, focus on building up El Rapids, but it just got worse and worse, to where even his friends were noticing his discomfort. 

"Are you actually alright though, dude?" Karl stifles a laugh, watching Quackity's wings twitch every ten seconds like they were mid-flight. But both of them knew, not only had Quackity never flown, but he couldn't even if he wanted to. 

"I'm fine." He deadpans back, teeth grit. It hurt so fucking much-- how much longer would it fucking do this? Did he have to cut them all to stop the pain, was that it? Quackity places another layer of rock along the log frame they'd build. This would be their white house. It was important to focus. 

"Hey," Karl's frowning now, he can feel it. He was just working on the speed bumps and now they were all off-track because of his cowardice. Perfect. "You seem tense. Seriously, what's going on?" 

Quackity groans, rolling his shoulders and flexing the wings to their capacity. He doesn't want to tell Karl a single thing about his stupid wings, but he knows his silence now means Karl would run to their other boyfriend. And man, he couldn't ignore Sapnap. He made it literally impossible. 

"My wings just itch." 

"Can't you just scratch them?" Karl posits. 

"No, it's not--" Quackity flutters them again, biting back an annoyed snap at the innocent other, "It doesn't work like that. It's just--" 

"Bird shit?" He cuts in, amusement thick in his voice. 

"Bird shit." Quackity chuckles. 

"Is there anything I can do? You look peeved. I wanna help!" Karl slumps himself into Quackity's shoulder, pouting. With his big blue eyes, he can feel his resolve start to melt. He really didn't mean to cause any harm, and Quackity was causing some concern among the crew. 

"I dunno Karl, I don't think I can bring myself to ask you anything about this." His chest clenches thinking of Karl holding those scissors, snapping waxy sheathes in two. Crimson coating his fingers, tears running down his face. No, he couldn't. Karl would be horrified, at least Schlatt was used to such atrocities. And besides, Quackity feared growing to resent Karl for the pain grooming his wings brought. 

The thought churns his stomach, so Quackity turns and gathers Karl in his arms, pushing his face into his collar. His wings hurt so fucking much. 

"Oh, Q," Karl hums with pity, scratching the hair peeking from beneath Quackity's beanie, "Can I--Can I get someone who you can help you?" 

Quackity shrugs helplessly, "I dunno who can help." He does. He does know who can help, it's just that said person was currently six feet under. 

"What about Phil? He's a bird-person-thing too, right?" 

He hums in thought for a moment. Phil seemed like a nice guy, from what he's heard about him. (He did kind of kill Wilbur, his own son, in front of everyone. But that was more of a necessity thing than a 'for pleasure' thing.) Chances were, he'd probably be a bit gentler than Schlatt. 

Or worse. He did cause Wilbur's downfall. Big Q wishes he could just stay there in Karl's arms forever, feeling the gentle scratch of dull nails against his nape. Even if the pain couldn't stop, this would make it worth it, make the pain tolerable. A strike of pain curls up his left and he clenches his jaw to stop from wincing. 

He's out of options. 

"Alright. Yeah, I can talk to Phil." Quackity mumbles, pulling away from Karl's hug. 

"I'll do it, Q, I got it. Where do you need to do this? Where would be best for you?" 

He shrugs, a little lost for words, "My house in L'manburg, I guess. It's--" He regrets the words as soon as he says them, knowing that his cries would probably resonate around the city, "Would--Are you guys gonna be in the city tonight?" 

Karl's eyebrows furrow, "We can be, if you need us." 

"No, I-I would prefer if you guys weren't. It's just kind of embarrassing." He tries his best to flex a sheepish grin onto his features. 

Karl snorts, "You're not cheating on us with your kind-of-uncle-in-law are you?" 

"No!" Quackity laughs, "How dare you? I just leave a mess of feathers after molting, okay? I wanna clean up before you guys get back." 

"Oh-- This is a molting thing?" 

"A little. It's hard to explain." 

"Alright, alright. You don't have to explain anything if you don't want to, Q. Me and Sapnap can take a date night. We've been meaning to have one anyway. Though," He adds with a wink, "We were kind of expecting you to be included too." 

Quackity's unable to hold back a genuine smile this time, "Later, all three of us. I promise." 

Karl's face burns red with a stupid teasing grin on his face, "Simp." 

"I'm not-- Don't give the others any ideas!" Quackity balks, swatting at his boyfriend's shoulder. Karl giggles and backs off, running off down the side of El Rapids. Quackity chases him for a moment before standing triumphantly at the top of the staircase and sticking out his tongue to mock the other. Karl just laughs and keeps sprinting, clearly with a new resolve in mind. 

After consideration, he turns back quickly to yell, "I'll see you later tonight then! Later Q-Bert!" 

Quackity scowls but waves with amusement clear in his eyes, "Bye Karlos!" 

He tries to ignore the dread in his stomach as he finishes the building. 

\---

Quackity gets done earlier than he expected, sending both Sapnap and Karl some cutesy bullshit to assure them he was alright before resigning himself to his house. 

His stomach was doing acrobatics in his stomach, the clear memory of that night in the White House all those months ago still clear in his mind. His breath rattled out in small succession, heart pounding. Phil was all too familiar too the dark shadowy image of a ram's skull tearing fistfuls of beautiful golden feathers from his skin. 

Quackity doesn't even notice he's picking at his feathers again until one of them starts to bleed red against his palm. His fingernails come back with crimson under their beds and that alone is enough to send him into another panic. What if someone noticed? He assured his boyfriends would be out of the town, but not the others. He can't just clear a city because he's scared people will hear him.

Maybe he can just try really hard to be quiet. Maybe if he's rough enough, he'll pass out before the bad parts. 

He's gasping for breath when the door opens, his grip on the chair in the middle of the room now knuckle white intensity. 

"What--? Holy shit--" The avian father, now clad in a black button up and grey cardigan to match his (rather imposing) spread wings behind him that speckle with diamond white shapes along their primaries, sputters as soon as he enters the house.   
Karl had been so adamant he be careful with Quackity, noticing a particular sensitivity with his wings, but Phil had just assumed that was the boy's genuine care and overreaction. He of all people knew how it was to assume things were worse than they would be. 

Turns out Karl had been underestimating the issue at hand. 

He sucks in a breath when he sees the wing's state of current disrepair, pinfeathers all out of wack and puffed up, lines of blood dripping down the others from a punctured feather not yet developed. Even the main flight ones were sheared ever so slightly, in a harmful attempt to clip away the boy's ability to fly. Phil didn't even know how to process that fact, unsure of why anyone would clip their wings in such a way. 

"Hey, mate? Mate-- c'mon, take a deep breath," Phil drops to a crouch, trying to meet the younger's eyes, "It's just me, I'm not gonna hurt you, just breathe. Everything's alright, it's okay." 

Quackity's wild gaze meets Phil's, his eyes immediately tearing up, "Fuck-- Fuck!" He curses, curling his fingers into his beanie, "Just get it over with- okay? I can-I can deal with it and I'll be quiet." 

Phil couldn't be more confused with the situation at hand. 

"I'm not-- Big Q, I'm just here to-- you're molting, yeah?" 

Quackity nods his head slowly, like it's the most dreadful situation. Phil can feel his heartbeat speed up as conclusions begin to peer through the fog of confusion that clouds his mind from seeing why the boy was just so scared of him, of something so harmless--

"I'm not going--This shouldn't hurt--Mate, I-I won't hurt you?" 

Quackity's wings just beat and fluff themselves at his side, spraying droplets of non-clotting blood across the floor. Phil's jaw sets, he needs to fix that first. 

"Alright, okay, I'm going to stop the bleeding, okay? Just breathe, I'll go slow." 

There's no response, Phil doubts the boy even heard him, but he takes his time anyway despite the adrenaline burn in his skull yelling at him to just scoop the kid in his arms. If this were Wil or Techno or Tommy, there'd be no hesitation.   
But, Phil forces himself to remember, this kid doesn't know him as well. Has no promise of good intention. He had to build that. 

He tries to ignore the pang in his chest when the wings flinch under his gentle touch, the boy whimpering and biting into his palms like he was preparing for much worse. 

Focus, Phil. Stop the blood first.

He reaches, though his hands are noticeably shaky, into the side messenger bag he brought with him and flips open a small medical box. Phil grapples around uselessly until the smaller powdery bottle, about the size of his palm, brushes his fingers and he snatches it from the box. He's used it before, only in small amounts, to stop the small grazing cuts he got sometimes from flying in dangerous places. Now, he's almost certain he's buying a bigger bottle next time if this happens again. 

He sucks in a deep breath and turns to the trembling teen beside him, "This might hurt a little, but I promise-- I promise-- it's just to stop the blood. That's-- this is the worst of it." 

Quackity just wails, gritting his teeth and gripping his hair like it was the only thing keeping him on earth. 

Guilt eats at his stomach. Focus. Focus. Soon. 

Phil presses the powdery substance to the torn out pinfeather pore, cramming it shut and pressing his palm against it. He ignores the stifled shouts and counts in his head. A few more seconds, he assures himself, just a few more. 

Quackity can feel the stinging warmth grow under Phil's palm, a new pain he's not accustomed too. As he bites back small yips, he's ever grateful he forced the two men he loves out of this city. He squeezes his eyes shut as the fear overtakes him once again. Tears drip down his cheeks. 

The powder clots the blood, stopping the flow and crusting under his hand. In a few minutes, the skin will have scabbed over and begin healing. But for now, he was just glad the kid wasn't going to keel over. Phil repeats the process a few more times, all the while whispering affirmations under his breath. After the sixth, and final, pinfeather wound was covered, it feels like a weight is lifted off his shoulders. 

He's stopped the immediate danger, time to comfort. 

Phil drops to his knees in front of the kid, sure his face is weeping with worry and concern. 

"Are you gonna-- you know?" Quackity mumbles from behind hands wet with tears. 

"Jesus, no. Not yet, not now-- You're having a goddamn panic attack." 

"No shit." Quackity whimpers. 

Well, at least he still has his bite, Phil bemuses. He holds out his palms, dusted free of the powder, "Can I touch you?" 

"Hands." Quackity strangles out, "No where else." 

Phil's heart breaks into a million pieces in his chest, choking back his own sob at the assumption that comes with a such a request, "Of course." He croaks, holding the boy's hands in his own. 

"Can you look at me?" He asks next, trying to meet the other's gaze. 

"Mm." Quackity is hesitant, solidly staring at his shoes. He can't tell which emotion it is that's training his gaze, but it's strong. 

"When, ah, when my kids are having panic attacks, it helps to know someone else is here that sees you. Sometimes Wil dissociates and feels separate from himself. Seeing someone notice his existence, it sort of helps." 

"S'that what this is?" He says under his breath, blinking slowly.

Phil squeezes his hand gently. 

Quackity slowly brings his eyes to meet Phil's, scrunching up his face and letting it relax like the muscles in his face were finally settling back in. 

"It's just me, I'm right here. I won't hurt you or do anything you tell me not to. Understood?" 

Quackity nods, swallowing hard. 

"Okay, good. Now, can you follow my breaths?" 

He takes a big dramatic breath in, puffing out his chest. Quackity attempts to follow, stuttering a few times before getting a strong breath through. 

Phil exhales out his mouth, taking his time to let it drag out. 

He follows suit, fingers digging into Phil's knuckles when he messes up and it cuts out into sputtering air. 

"That's alright, it's okay. Just breathe, it'll take a few tries. Just keep following me." 

It takes ten more inhales until Quackity can feel his limbs again, the prickling numbness in his fingers now gone. The moment feels so reminiscent to one of the first times he met Sapnap, when the other boy saw him in that dark forest alone. 

Memories cool his fever hyper brain and his breath levels. 

"Why are you--" Quackity croaks, clearing his dry throat, "Why?" 

"You were panicking, mate. At that rate, you would've passed out." 

"Maybe that was good, for-for me." 

For someone who's must've gone through the pain of clipping before, Phil has a good impression of being slapped by the words he says. 

"No! Not at all-- this-- you shouldn't even feel any pain." 

Quackity snorts, humorless, "Alright. Well that's easy for you to say." 

"What do you mean, please? I feel like we're not on the same page." 

"You've done this so many times before, I bet. You're probably used to the blood by now." 

He misses the way Phil's head ducks and his shoulders tremble, taking in a shuddering breath. 

"Why don't you tell me how you've been doing it, Quackity?" He doesn't pick up his eyes from the ground.

"I haven't," He replies, tone flat, "Schlatt did it last time." The name sends bristles down Phil's back, feathers immediately puffing in responsive anger. His head snaps upwards, eyes blazing. 

"And how," His voice holds so much contained anger, Quackity bends away from it, "How did Schlatt help the molt, exactly?" 

Quackity rolls his eyes, a little fearful still, but moves his wing for better access. His drags his fingers through the pleated wing until he feels the pricking of a pinfeather under his nail. He digs in, face contorting as he feels lances of throbbing ache travel across his wings. As soon as he reacts, a hand grabs his wrist in an iron grip, yanking it from his wing. 

"What are you doing?" Phil replies, voice a high shrill, looking between the wing and the boy. 

"You asked me!" He shouts, annoyed, "You asked me to show you out of some sick game and I'm doing it already, so just-- just--" His breath quickens again, and Phil releases his wrist, soothing the boy with a soft tone. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to raise my voice, but please-- please don't do that," He's begging, fingers back intertwined with the other, "That--That is not how you trim wings." 

Quackity looks shocked, blinking, "Tha-- What do you mean?" 

"That's not," Phil takes a deep breath, "That was... excessively cruel what Schlatt did. That-- That is not how you care for your wings, okay?" 

He doesn't reply, expression blank and dreadful. 

"Don't-- Don't ever remove those. They'll fall out almost naturally. You don't need to do anything to the pinfeathers. If they itch, you can get rid of them, but only if the pin isn't this," He brushes through the wings to find a less developed feather, "If it's like this, hard and waxy, don't touch it. It'll eventually flake off when it's done developing. Otherwise, you'll hit a blood feather like- like the one you pulled-- and cause some bleeding. And don't... don't cut the primary ones, yeah? Those can help you fly, but--" 

He grips the boy's hands to gain his attention, "This is important, Quackity. They should never bleed. Understood? Your wings should never bleed. If they do, you need to get medical attention." 

Quackity nods, numb. 

"I'm going to just do a run-through of your wings, alright? I won't pull anything that will hurt. If something hurts, tell me and I'll stop immediately. I think-- I think other than the bleeding, they should be alright. You've got a bit of Angel Wing, but that's easy to fix. I've seen a lot of new wings with that issue." 

He's zoned out by now, nodding in agreement to whatever Phil says . The man still holds one of his hands at all times, the other carding through the feathers and removing, painlessly, any outgrown feathers. They fall easily to the ground, not a single flinch from the boy. 

Phil digs into his pack with one hand, sighing with relief when he sees the blue wrap gauze is still settled under the splints. He hasn't used these in forever, not since he's joined the SMP, for sure. 

"I need to let go for a little bit. This will be a little uncomfortable to situate your wing into, but shouldn't hurt. In fact, it might be a bit snug." 

He folds the wing, careful to avoid all the packed and cleaned wounds, and wraps it around the middle with the blue stretchy material. It simply holds all the pins in place, feathers now bound to their correct flow of the grain. It was more of a cosmetic issue than a health one, but if he was already here and it didn't hurt, Phil didn't see it being a huge problem to fix. Besides, it kept the bandages in place.

Phil glances over at the boy when he finishes wrapping the other wing, checking for any discomfort on his face. Nothing, if anything, he looks a little more comfortable with the wings now tight to his body. Like being tucked in for bed. 

He moves back to sit in front of Quackity, holding out his hand again. Quackity looks embarrassed, now a little back to his old self, but takes the hand gratefully. 

"See? No pain. No blood." Phil says. 

"No blood." Quackity echos, voice spaced out. 

"Are you here with me, mate?" He rubs his thumb across the boy's knuckles. 

"M' here kind of." Quackity says, trying to focus on the form in front of him, "My head-- my head hurts. I want, uh---" He can't stop his voice from cracking with grief as he admits it, "I want my Karl and Sapnap, please." 

Phil's eyebrows knit with sympathy, "Of course, mate. I can go get them, if you want?" 

He shakes his head, "Please don't go." 

The furious need to adopt is back again, and it takes all Phil's effort to not push the topic, "I won't, I'm not going anywhere." He cards his hands through whatever hair is exposed on the boy's head. Quackity just leans into it, just dropping from the adrenaline of thinking he was about to undergo a lot more pain. 

"Can you stand?" 

"Mhm." Quackity wobbles to his feet. The chair beneath him is swept away, pushed far into a corner. Phil leads him over to the small couch on the second floor, pulling the boy into a hug and avoiding his wings while doing so. 

"You'll be alright, mate, I promise. That shouldn't ever happen. If you ever go through that again, I need you tell me. That's not right." 

Quackity just nods his head, trying to hold back any pitiful tears. 

Phil shuffles as he pulls a comm from his pocket, sending out a message to Sapnap and Karl. As soon as he does, he's back to comforting the other. He just hopes they arrive soon. 

His prayers seem to be answered, because from downstairs, the doors burst open with a loud bang that can only be a sign of Sapnap. 

"Big Q?" Sapnap calls out, voice betraying his worry. 

"Quackity? Quackity, we're here-- are you okay?" Karl is already deep in the house, throwing around blankets. 

Jesus, they were intolerable. In an endearing way. 

"Up here, you two idiots." Phil shouts back, covering up Quackity's ears to stop the sound from hurting the boy's oversensitive state after several panic attacks. 

Karl and Sapnap nearly run each other over when climbing the stairs, Karl flinging himself at the couch when he sees Quackity, bandaged wings and curled up. He coos as Phil releases his grip to let Quackity weakly wrap his arms around Karl. His muscles immediately relax in the boy's grip, burying his face into his hoodie. 

"Oh, Q. I got you buddy, It's alright. It's okay." His whimpers turn into soft cries, Karl rubbing his back as he shudders through grief. 

The burning passionate care in Sapnap's eyes turn to anger as he seems to immediately pick the closest person to blame. 

"Phil." His voice is stern and rasping with anger, "Explain." 

"Watch it." Phil warns, keeping himself in steady check, "This wasn't my fault." 

"Seems like it." His fingers dance over the axe holstered at his hip.

His eyes narrow, "Well it wasn't. In fact, the man you're looking for to punish? Is already dead. If he wasn't, I would've already taken him out." It comes out with more snarling hatred then he anticipates, but seeing the state of Quackity along with the distorted idea of caring for such sensitive things as wings--

Sapnap seems startled too, but after a moment, his anger fizzles into a shared inferno between the two. An understanding passes, unspoken. If they could kill the man, not only would Phil attempt to do it himself, but he would be no moral wall keeping Sapnap from doing such act as brutally as needed. 

Sapnap bows his head, breaks the eye contact, and huddles over next to his boys. He wraps his arms around Quackity, mumbling under his breath, "It's alright, Q, it's okay. You're safe, we're here." 

"He was a monster." Quackity chokes out between sniffles. 

No one needs to ask who 'he' is. 

Karl's grip on Quackity's jacket tightens, Sapnap sitting beside them both and pulling them towards his outstretched arms. 

"I'll kill him. I'll fuckin' kill him even as a dead guy." Sapnap hisses out. 

"Not now," Karl soothes, "We gotta watch over someone's lil piss wings." 

The trio bursts out into unexpected laughter, Quackity wiping tears away while giggling, "Are you fucking kidding? Piss wings? I hate you so much." 

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too, you wonderful man." Karl presses kisses across his cheeks, snickering as Sapnap shoves him playfully.

"No, you lost your Quackity rights when you said he had piss wings! He's mine now." 

"No! This is so rude! Don't be toxic, Sapnap!" 

Phil can't help but chuckle at the scene, shaking his head. Kids were fucking strange. 

"Phil," Quackity says, voice lighter and grinning when Phil looks at him, "Thank you. Seriously." 

"No problem, mate. Message me if you have any more questions." He turns on his heel, ready to leave the trio behind before he says over his shoulder, "Oh, and you should know--" Phil stops in his walk with a smile, "Give it three weeks, and I could get you flying once those bands come off." 

The gasping awe from the three of them makes Phil's year. 

"You can fly soon? Holy shit!" 

"We never have to walk places again! Fuck getting tridents!" 

"Oh so you're using me for my ability now, I see how it is!" 

Phil shuts the door behind him, packing up his things and leaving the three of them to their love. 

The night is warm, the sky full of stars. Phil can't deny the call, unfurling his wings to beat off into the deep blue hues. 

It's the best he's felt in a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity KNEW better than this, he really did. But knowing and understanding are two different things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this is a series now pog ? probably gonna add one more chapter to give this whole series a happy ending because fuck it, why not? 
> 
> tw: minor self harm, not graphic, feather pulling, depressive episodes, negative self talk and a happy trouple

It's raining again. 

And by again, Quackity means for the fifteenth time in these short couple days. He's not exactly sure why the sky decided only after his wings were healed, that they'd make the weather unsuitable for flight, but there was no changing it now. 

He wanted to fly. Super badly, in fact. Not because it'd be fucking sick as hell, which it would, but because it'd be his first time using his wings properly after healing. In the small discussions he had with Phil, he could tell the man would be lost without his wings.

Without his flight. He spoke about it like Quackity would speak about breathing, like it was another essential part to his life-force that he couldn't just give up. 

He wanted that. He wanted to breathe, for once, after years of holding his breath.

If he didn't get the time in now, would he ever get to?   
Would Phil forget or forgo their lessons for more important things?   
How the fuck could he teach himself to fly? 

Rain fell, and Quackity's hopes fell with it. There's no way the sky could clear up in time before winter hit and L'manburg fell into an era of snow. Even El Rapids wasn't safe from the changing climate. In fact, it's higher position probably meant it would get coldest there first, before the rest of the cities. It'd snowed there, not long ago, to prove that true. 

His heart swoops as he remembers making accurate snow angels with Sapnap, chucking snow balls at Karl, and the three small snow men they made out of the little material they had on the edge of El Rapids. His boyfriends have been nothing but supportive since his breakdown. Karl lovingly running his hands through the plume of feathers whenever they looked out of order, Sapnap helping redress the wings, even helping him stretch them. 

He tries not to let the idea of being a burden weigh him down. That his wings weren't a burden. And flying could fix that. Once he could fly, he could show them it wasn't for nothing. They wouldn't have to help anymore. 

A shiver runs through him, and he bustles his wings closer to his form as he sits just within the confines of the house. 

A stray palm runs across the ridge of his wing, not bandaged but relaxed, and Quackity reflexively leans into the touch. 

"Are you alright?" Sapnap soothes, running his hand through the back of Quackity's hair, under his hat. His tone is low and comforting, leading him to hum in pleasant response. 

Sapnap chuckles, rubbing his thumb along his nape, "You just zoning out? Watching the rain?" 

Quackity nods, eyes fluttering shut.   
"I wish it'd stop. I wanna fly." 

"It'll happen." He sighs, "We're just kinda unlucky with the weather lately, you know?" 

The door to their home opens, the sound of rain increasing with the unburdened opening, then muting when it shuts behind a familiar form in colorful clothes. Karl smiles when he sees the two, kicking off his boots and shaking off his now soaked hoodie. 

"You won't believe how much it's pouring! Do you know how many puddles I jumped in?" 

Sapnap groans, "Too many. You're gonna catch a cold, dumbass!" 

"No!" Karl pouts, hugging the material close to himself, "I'll just have Q keep me warm!" His grin turns mischievous as he sprints to the sallow man, encasing him in a wet hug that causes him to shiver.

"You're so cold! Go take a shower!" Quackity laughs, shoving Karl away, "No kisses either, your lips are freezing."

"You guys are so toxic, I can't believe this." Karl huffs, pressing a frigid kiss to the top of Quackity's forehead and squirming his way into Sapnap's grasp to peck him on the cheek, "Worst boyfriends." 

"Yeah- ha-ha. Now go throw that sweatshirt in front of the fire to dry, for fucks sake." Sapnap rolls his eyes. 

"Tryin' to get me naked, sir?" Karl wiggles his eyebrows, snickering when Sapnap fumes back. 

"You know we don't do that-- I'm taking the hoodie, it's so gross man, you never wash it." 

"No! You'll ruin it!" Karl whines and bats away the man's hands, running off into another part of the house, Sapnap trailing behind him with near visible steam radiating out of his ears. 

Quackity watches the scene play out like a movie, giggling when he sees them barrel away. He turns his gaze back to the window, pulling the blanket over his shoulders a little tighter to his form. They were truly the sunshine in his life. He couldn't lose them. 

He didn't want to. 

His wings puff out in reaction to the accompanying depressive thoughts, twitching. In reaction, Quackity sighs and runs a finger through the carefully straightened wings, frowning when he sees one out of place. 

He knows. He knows he shouldn't touch it, shouldn't mess with it or fuck with it. He's learned, Phil told him not to. But logic doesn't take the handle in moments like these, and his nails dig into the stem of the feather. 

Quackity bites his lip hard as pain and panic blooms under his grip, and expand in a radial beat as he yanks it out. It doesn't hurt forever, and what comes afterwards is a rush of relief. Like he'd finally straddled back control. Fought away the bad thoughts for maybe just another couple minutes. It's not long term, he knows that. But since when did he plan for that? 

He doesn't consciously understand or decide what his fingers do, but they move of their own accord. His body moves for survival, and this is what they've decided survival is. It's another burst of pain, an ache of victory, and the search for more. 

It starts for only messy, sloppy, feather placements. Then it goes deeper. Maybe it's only a millimetre off, but he could care less. It's a sign, and that sign meant he'd soon feel relief. 

A couple feathers become a pile on the floor beside him. A pile becomes two piles as he moves to the other side. His heart cries out in double bladed glee and agony. Did it matter that this might postpone his flight practice? Who cared, it wasn't like it was happening anyway. Phil was just trying to be nice, right? 

Karl's hand catches his wrist mid-pull. It's not violent or oppressive, but gentle. A reminder. They're pale, freckled, nails painted black, and his knuckles pink. It's Karl. He knows it is. 

"Sweetheart," He mumbles softly, moving his hand to curl his fingers with Quackity's, "Why don't we try something else, huh?" 

Quackity swallows hard, a noise wrangling its way out of his throat as a mixture of horror that his boyfriend had caught him and joy that he finally was holding his hand. 

Karl side steps the piles of feathers, moving in front of the boy and helping him stand by holding his hands.   
Palms rest on his side, and tug him back, away from the window. 

"Hey Q," Sapnap says, "Just me." 

He's tired. And his wings really hurt now. Quackity thinks maybe he pulled too many or pulled the wrong ones, he's not exactly sure. But he can fix it. Right now, though, he needs hugs. 

Quackity melts into the touch, turning in his arms and resting his forehead on Sapnap's collar. Circles are rubbed between his shoulder blades, pressing to somehow heal the ache.

"Can you...?" Karl mumbles, fingers still tangled with Q's. Sapnap nods, giving him a strained, but hopeful, look. 

"I got this. Be back soon, though. Alright?" His tone is so full of concern that it weighs down Quackity's shoulders, slumping even harder into the man's hold. 

Karl presses a kiss just on Quackity's temple before turning and sliding back on his boots, picking up Sapnap's coat from the hanger. He disappears back into the rain. 

Quackity whines, jaw set when he feels the lacking presence of one of his boyfriends. 

Sapnap hushes him, pulling the other carefully over to the lounge with a large couch in it now. Since moving under Ranboo's home, at least. No instructions need to pass between the two, Quackity taking his place laying atop his boyfriend and pushing closer. Laying atop of him gave his wings room to spread and sit comfortably. 

Together, they laid in silence, Sapnap only breaking the silence to whisper soft affirmations to him to distract him from the now blazing pain in his wings, pressing kisses all over his face. 

Karl pushes open the door again, this time tailed by someone new. Phil, covering himself and the boy with his outstretched wing, walk into the tense silence of the home. Even the rain couldn't break up the bated breath everyone held. 

"He's here, I'm-I'm sorry if--" Karl stutters, flailing his hands uselessly. 

Phil's already shaking his head, "Don't be sorry, I told him to call me if something was wrong." 

Quackity flinches at that, digging tighter into the protective grasp of Sapnap. He can see the heated gaze Sapnap sends Phil at that. Emotions were certainly taught, it seemed. 

If he's intimidated by it, he doesn't show it, as he steps aside Karl and lets the door shut behind him, moving to the couch's side. 

"Hey mate," Phil gives a half cocked smirk, though it's noticeably wary, "Things got out of control?" 

He doesn't reply, only nodding his head into Sapnap's tear stained collar.

"I didn't mean to," Quackity says, voice all too quiet, "I really-- I really didn't mean to. I don't-I don't know how...I couldn't...." His throat chokes him with grief, so he fades off his sentence with a shaky breath. 

"It's alright, don't worry," Phil's eyebrows knit with concern, "I believe you, mate, I do. I should've... expected this. That's on me. Just breathe, alright?" 

Quackity huffs, chuckle hollow and empty, "I'm pathetic, aren't-aren't I?" 

"Absolutely not." Sapnap tightens his grip, "Don't fuckin' say that, Q. You're going through some rough shit." 

The other pipes up, Karl's voice strained "You're not at all! This is... This is how people cope. And it's not healthy, but that doesn't mean we would... like, crucify you for it. We just need to find other outlets. Better, healthier, coping mechanisms." He sighs, crouching beside his boyfriends to be at their eye level. 

Quackity feels his eyes water, "I just love you guys so much." He blubbers. 

"We love you too, dummy," Karl hums, "Let us know what's going on in that head of yours so we can help. Cause--Cause we can. Okay? We wanna help and we can help." 

He looks between his two boyfriends, eyes stinging with tears, and gives a curt nod. Sapnap's shoulders fall with tension falling, pressing a furious kiss to his forehead. 

Phil cuts in, his box opened and unpacked with some simple pain meds and bandages, "If you guys don't mind, could you sit up so I could see better?" 

Sapnap's eyes narrow. 

"You don't have to let go of him." 

He grumbles, but does comply. Sapnap drags the two of them upright so Quackity was in his lap, still held, but the wings were properly splayed out. Karl takes his place on the other side of Quackity, sitting criss cross on the cushions and watching his boyfriend's every move.

"You guys are clingier than Tubbo and Tommy," Phil sighs, "Those two are almost bound at the hip." 

"We're cooler than them anyway." Karl snips with a grin. 

Sapnap nods, looking determined. "Yeah. Polynamory." 

"Polyamory, babe." 

"Right, that." 

Phil laughs, handing Karl the pain meds, "Get him some water and have him take these, alright? They'll help dull the ache while they heal." 

"Is he okay?" Karl asks.

"Yeah, nothing major. It will... take longer to regrow these, but he hasn't caused great damage. This is, unfortunately," He adds with a twitch of a frown, "Pretty common in avian types. Anxiety builds up and... well... The feathers are right there." He swabs a cloth across one of the more tender looking feather openings, pressing a cotton bandage there with medical tape, "I used to do this too." 

He pauses, "I still do. Sometimes. Not to this extent, but it's hard to..." Phil struggles for words as he places another bandage, smoothing out the feathers when he feels Quackity flinch, the movement oddly familiar to patching up his kids after they scuffed up their knees, "It's hard to cope with losing a son." 

The three boys' faces fall at that, all of them stung with the reminder of the spirit that haunted L'manburg. 

Phil's face remains stony, "They'll regrow, and you'll grow with them." He places the last one, this one a simple cheap band-aid with dinosaurs in colorful patterns, "And when you do, you'll be there in spite of it." 

He watches the unmoving boy for a moment longer, watching him be soothed by his boyfriend and coaxed into taking medications by the other. Quackity downs the meds without much thought, grateful for the drink. He mumbles out a thank you before pulling Karl into a hug. He seemed insatiably needy for physical touch, not that it was particularly a bad thing. 

Phil's mouth feels dry, limbs heavy, "I'm glad you're alright, Quackity. I know I don't understand, not in the way I could or should, but I'm always willing to try. I haven't given up on you, no one has. As my fuckin' witness, I'll make sure you fly, alright?" 

"'mean it?" Quackity breathes out, watching Phil with wide eyes. 

"I do. I think I've spent too long waiting to heal things that aren't cuts and bruises. We all..." He shuffles his feet, almost embarrassed, "We all need this bit of hope, you know?" 

"Techno calls you Icarus." Phil adds after a moment, "He doesn't mean it as an insult, you know?" 

"He thinks I'm naive." 

"He thinks you're determined. And just crazy enough to make it when the world burns around you. Rather, in spite of the world burning around you."

"You think he's right?" 

Phil lets a grin flicker on his lips, "I know he's right."

Thunder rumbles across the land, lightly shaking the window panes. 

"I'll let you guys rest. We'll fly soon, Quackity. I know it. Lean on your wings, Icarus. And I don't mean the ones on your back." He nods towards the two clinging men at his front and side. He gives Quackity a small salute and packs up his things, noticing them half-asleep before he even leaves the home. 

The rain pour lightens, drizzling and leaving large pools of water across the already water sunk land of L'manburg. There may be a clear day soon yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anyone else read "thunder rumbled" and thought of jack manifold just pogging across lmanburg? no? just me? i did write it so-- 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support in this by the way! It means the world!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the finale! woo! bit of a long one lads.
> 
> tw: implied past abuse, victim blaming themselves, trauma, ptsd flashbacks/panic attacks, mentioning of grief and healing.

"We're goin' to push you off a cliff, essentially." 

Quackity can't help the shock on his features, sputtering, "You're not serious, right? Pushing me off a goddamn cliff?" 

Phil gives him the kindest strained smile he can, "I wish. It's a little dodgy, but it's the easiest way to learn. Otherwise it's months of waiting, training yourself to focus, shut off your panic response. When it's easier to just..." He shrugs and pulls on his cloak, tying it at the front, "Let your body do what comes naturally." 

"And if my natural response is to fuckin' die?" 

Phil laughs, "I won't let you die, mate, don't be dramatic." He side steps the younger and pushes open the arctic hideout they've made, a trail laid out in his mind towards a higher peak on the server. 

"You're gonna push me off a cliff!" Quackity balks, jogging to keep up with him in the calf-high snow, "I don't think I'm being dramatic at all!" 

The other waves a hand at him dismissively, peeking at the wings now fluttering anxiously behind Quackity. The brief flap seems to catch him off guard, and Quackity bats at the them. 

"They've healed well!" Phil remarks with a raised eyebrow, "The yellow tint is surprising, you know. Those aren't usual duck colors. I guess they are mostly white." 

"Yeah, you're tellin' me." Quackity huffs, "It's already strange enough that I got them. Late bloomer shit." 

Phil hums, "Probably, yeah. Most importantly, they seem strong. It's hard to believe they were the same dinky shits I saw a month or so ago." 

The wings curl inwards, flattening to his spine, "Well, turns out a lot of things are different from then." 

Quiet settles between them, Phil clearing his throat to break it, "Sorry, I didn't mean to remind you." 

"It's alright, I know it's-- uh-- I just forgot for a moment how they used to be." 

"With your support group, you know, it won't ever go back to that." He stops walking, turning on the other and placing a palm on his shoulder, "None of us would let it happen again." 

"The wings, or..." Quackity trails off, eyes a glossy reflection of ram horns and gnashing teeth. 

"Any of it." Phil decides after a moment, "We didn't know then, what matters is that we do now." 

Snow falls in gentle slopes, resting across Quackity's hat and coat. 

"Thank you." He breathes, "I know I keep saying it, but I don't know how else to..." 

"You don't need to thank people for being decent human beings. It should be expected. But, you know, least we could do." He grins, pushing the boy's bangs out of his eyes and turning back to the road, "C'mon, the snowfall should teeter off before we reach the cliff." 

"Careful, old man, I dunno if your knees can handle that--" Quackity muses with a shit eating grin. Phil's darker, much larger, wing bops him roughly by the shoulder, sending Quackity into a nearby snowbank with a yelp. 

"Rude!" Quackity yells, brushing the snow off his knees and chasing after him. 

"Respect your elders!" 

\--

It's noon when they finally reach the peak of the mountain, a long hour hike leading them upwards and upwards with what seemed like to no end. Eventually, the ridges plateaued and a flat platform spanned out before them, right after it being a short drop and a long fall. 

Quackity peers down it, heart in his throat, "Jesus." 

"It looks further than it is, don't worry." Phil says, dropping his bag off against one of the rocks and stretching. 

"You know, I really don't believe that." He says between grit teeth, shoving off his heavy coat for a lighter jacket that barely keeps the chill out from his bones. He stretches, curving his wrists and rolling his shoulder blades back, sighing when his back cracks with a satisfied pop. 

"So, you're really just yeetin' me off a cliff?" Quackity asks once again, shoving his cold hands into his pockets. 

"It's how mother birds teach their young. And they get it." 

"They fall off a tree, Phil, not a cliff." 

"It's the same adrenaline rush. Same wind that pushes under your wings, steadies your eyes. You'll get it when you feel it." Phil approaches him, casual. Quackity groans, rubbing his face with his hands.

"God, I really can't fucking die today, man." 

Phil snorts, putting a hand on his shoulder once again, "Dude, I promise, I wouldn't let you fall to your death. But there's no better teacher for this then falling." 

And with that, Phil roughly shoves the boy's side, causing him to stagger, teeter, then fall off the cliff with a panicked scream. 

The world becomes loud. When you're not moving, when you're a stagnant piece of material that occupies the space, the world can be quiet, if everyone is still enough. When no one moves, the world grows quiet. Quackity's not sure why, but he never considered the opposite end of that spectrum. That when you were moving through it, everything screaming like a symphony of noise. 

Wind rushing past his ears, his coat and wings flapping uselessly in the air rubbing against each other, blood soaring through his skull, his breath becoming a bass line for his heart's beat. His eyes squeeze shut in pure panic, his one visual plunged into pure darkness. 

Sweat feverishly cooling on his skin didn't stop the anxiety. The helplessness of falling, failing, plummeting from heights you could achieve if you could just do it-- if you could just try-- 

Try harder, do better, move quicker, struggled more-- Maybe things wouldn't be this way. Because this was him, his fall, his failure. Blame was a silver dagger cutting through sensitive feathers and dragging thick fingers through plumage. Causing damage to something unreal, not there-- a form of a person that'd been lost years ago-- 

His stomach swoops as Quackity goes from falling to rising, a hand clutched in the front of his shirt and another cupping his neck. His eyes slide open in panic, blinking through the fear to see a heaving Phil, beating his own wings hard and tugging them both higher and higher. 

His gut churns when he sees how close the ground is from his finger tips. But the world goes quiet, so he lets his eyes shut once again to feel it's cool salve. 

They rise back to the cliff's edge in silence, Phil dropping him gently against the outcropping before landing himself. 

"Okay," Phil swallows, breathing hard, "A bad first try, but that's alright--" 

"No!" Quackity shouts, blazing eyes set on the blonde a few paces in front of him, standing instead of sitting like he was, "No, it's not fucking alright, Phil!" 

His eyes glaze with pity, "Mate..." 

"Nothing's alright! That's the fucking point!" He grips his hat tight and sets his jaw, "Nothing is fucking okay! Nothing is being 'alright' and I-I'm fucking--"

"I'm NOT ALRIGHT!" He hiccups, "I'm a fucking mess! I'm a goddamn avian shit fucker and I can't even fucking fly and I'm a goddamn adult and I can't even stop myself from-from being--being hurt! If I just said something, none of this would have happened! Maybe I wouldn't even have these fucking wings!" 

"Hold on, Q--" Phil murmurs, looking worried. 

"No, NO! I know!" He screams, voice straining, "I fucking know! I know why now, of all fuckin' times, these fucking wings sprouted!" Quackity heaves in a breath, "It's stress-- Phil! It's fucking stress! It fucking fucks with your genes and it fucked up mine and I-I--" He blubbers, a painful smile on his face as tears race down his cheeks, "Now I have a visual representation of how fucking stupid I am! How fucking broken I am! That my body had to--" He laughs, hollow, "Had to hand me literal wings to show me even with them, I'm-- I'm just another fucking Icarus." 

He dashes the back of his hand across his cheek, mumbling, "I'm just fucking Icarus, man. I tried and I fell and I'm fucked up, alright? I can't do it. I can't do this, Phil." 

"Oh, mate," Phil croons, eyes watering, "No, fuck, I--" He crouches, still keeping his distance, "Q, alright-- you- you're not wrong that they did..." He gnaws on his lip, "The wings were probably a survival technique from when, you know, he was around. Stress activation, it's-it's rare but it makes sense if the gene was just sitting there, waiting..." He trails off, scanning the boy for a moment. 

"D'you know when Wil died?" 

Quackity looks up, face dark and ill, "No offense, but I don't want to hear about that right now." 

"Hear me out, please." Phil pleads. He settles into sitting, folding his wings behind himself. 

Quackity sighs, "Yeah, alright. I do, kind of. I was at the wrong angle and didn't hear much. You killed him." 

"Right, exactly." Phil hums, lost in a sad memory, "Wil was... that wasn't my son, at the end of the day. It was his face, but not his heart. When Wil was alive, happier n' stuff, he was a lot like you. Ah, well, he didn't have wings, obviously," He lets out a small chuckle, "But he... wasn't alright with the way his life was. Constantly. And it wasn't his fault, things've been shit for him since he was a kid. It's why I adopted him in the first place. But he was so fuckin' miserable. His body became... in his eyes, less of an owned occupation but a walking carcass." 

"It's hard to believe, I guess, to know he'd felt that way for so long before everythin' sort of... kicked off. But he didn't feel like he was at home in his own body." Phil's face pinches in pain, "I can't even imagine. Feelin' like a goddamn stranger to yourself. Lookin' in the mirror and not knowin' who was lookin' back. And, maybe he didn't have, you know, wings or anythin' but he treated his body the same way. Like it was an evidence locker in a case against himself." 

"Everything was proof. His nails chipped? Hair out of place? Scars? Everything. Provin' how broken he was. Just add it to the pile." He takes a deep breath, "But that's... it's hard to see, but that's not what it is. Nothing, bodies, wings, whatever-- they're not proof you're incapable but the opposite. I know it's a lil cheesy, but all the things about himself that he hated, and he was still livin'? He was the strongest person I knew. Is, the strongest person I know. None of it was his fault, in the end. He was a circumstance of... well... a lot of failures. My own, included. But I never saw Wil as broken for who he was or where he came from. And I don't see you like that either." 

"You're... not Icarus because you're fallin'. You're Icarus because you fall admist the flames with a smile. Because you tried. Maybe it fucks up, but you do it anyway for the minutes between. You love for your boyfriends, not because you're waiting to break up. You... did what you did back then because you knew the means would justify the ends, and vice versa. You could deal with it all just to see an ending. Every second between that made it worth it. None of that-- anything Schlatt did-- it wasn't your fault. You were bearing a weight for a better future. Now, you just have to... accept it." 

"You're not broken or-or wrong. None of it was your fault. It wasn't Wil's and it isn't yours. It might be hard, a bit, to hear-- but you did your best, Quackity. You still are. Even if it doesn't feel like it." 

Phil scoots closer to the weeping boy, taking one of his hands in his own. 

Quackity takes the subtle touch as permission and launches into Phil's arms, wrapping his own around his torso. He lets him fall against him easily, Phil's hand curling into the back of his head, rubbing circles into his scalp. 

"You're really doin' your best, mate. I don't know if I said that enough to Wil, so I'm sayin' it now to you. You're doing your absolute fuckin' best." Phil strangles out, holding a shivering Quackity tighter to his chest. There's no reply, only a softer sob into his collarbones. 

They sit there for what feels like hours, the sun now setting and casting hues of purple and orange across the space. 

"Maybe we should try tomorrow, or later--" Phil hums, still gently petting the boy in his arms who's been near napping in the comforting warmth. 

"I want to." Quackity mumbles against him, "I want to do this." 

"You don't have to prove anything, Q. There's nothing wrong with needing a break." 

"I can do it. I can. I know it won't be perfect and shit, but-- I-I wanna try." 

Phil pulls the boy from his grasp and looks him seriously in the eyes, concern etched on his frown. 

"Are you sure? Seriously, mate, you've been through a rough goin' of it." 

"One more try. I know you'll catch me." 

They laugh quietly at that, Phil unlatching himself and standing, helping Quackity do the same. 

"Alright. One more try." 

Quackity walks over to the edge, wiping his nose on his sleeve and taking a breath of cold air in. His eyes shut. 

Phil waits for a moment, watching as Quackity falters but stands strong, before shoving him hard off the cliff once again, plunging him into the deep shadow. 

Wind and air crackles across Quackity's skin like lightning. He can feel everything click into full force gear again, panic clutching his heart.   
He forces himself to keep his eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing and heartbeat. 

These wings are his own. Or aren't-- Fuck-- He flinches at the memories that resurface, Schlatt digging metal into his skin.   
And with them come soon after more recent memories. Of warm circles rubbed into his spine, of gentle fingers adjusting his feathers. Of carding hands through plumage. Karl's chipped black nails and stupid smile. Sapnap's pouty face and callused palms. 

There's a peace that comes with it. 

Maybe they aren't his own. Maybe they're a fuck up, a fluke, whatever-- but they're his fuck ups now. Maybe he wasn't meant to have these wings, and maybe they are just another sign of his failures. 

But they don't have to stay that way. Because he can feel them stay strong, even in his panic or fear, flat against their primaries like they should be. Origins do not equal their ending. Time is not written in stone, the future a bleary idea rather than a set path. 

Maybe they came from a bad place. But they don't have to stay that way. 

Quackity breathes out a sigh, like he's taken his first lungful of air since those many years ago. He turns on his stomach, feeling his wings move like they've been ready for this lift off their entire life. 

They expand, arch, and catch the wing. 

Oh shit, and the moment is over-- MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE-- 

Quackity lets out a small shriek as he beats his wings as fast as he can, still falling rather quickly but his decent now sucked of most danger because of his alignment. For a second, he soars, and then he gets ex-fucking-hausted, like trying to do a pull up with no arms. 

"Ho- aye!" A hand grabs his hoodie and clutches him, pulling him up from hitting the tops of pine trees and stumbling into a probably painful existence. 

"Holy shit!" Quackity cries out, laughing like a maniac, "Holy shit!" 

"Not a great second try, uh--" Phil sputters, giggling. 

"That was fucking awesome! Did you see? Did you see!" He spews, "For a second, like a SECOND, I flew! I fucking did it! Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!" 

"Yeah, yeah! I saw the second!" Phil barks with laughter, holding Quackity tight and bringing them not up to the cliff edge but across the forest, "I think we're done for now, my heart can only handle so much today." 

"No-no, lemme at it! I can fuckin' do it, old man!" Quackity squirms.

"Fu-huck no!" Phil startles, still laughing, "No more, I can't have you dead on my watch. You know how quick Sapnap will kill me?" 

Quackity groans, "No, cmon, he's a big softie. It's Karl you have to worry about--" 

"Just hold on, mate," Phil chuckles, "You did awesome." 

Quackity looks at the speeding ground below them, heart still racing with excitement, "You think I'll get really good at it? Flying?" 

Phil thinks about it, cocking his head to the side, "Yeah, I think so. I think with practice, you can be great at anything." 

"You're such a sap." 

"I'll drop you." 

"Empty threat! I can now fly!"

"Barely!" 

Watercolor skies bleed from warm to cool colors, stars blinking into sight as the night is borne from the horizon. Tomorrow, they'll try again. Flying takes practice, of course. It'll take a few tries, but he'll fly. There was never a doubt in Phil's mind that he would, the second he saw the wings. He knew they were meant to see the world below it, clouds as flight partners. 

Tonight, however, Phil will drop Quackity off at his home and be dragged into a group dinner. Eat warm food with the boys he's grown to know and love. Watch Q hold their hands every second he can, just to feel them close. See echos of his kids in their stupid jokes and brazen actions. He knows big Q will be alright. Even if, somehow, flying never interested him. His boyfriends, Sapnap and Karl, they would be there through it all. 

Tonight, Phil will see another family flourish, before going home to his own. 

He opens the door and sees Techno curled up in an armchair, Tommy splayed out in his side, like they'd fallen asleep mid-argument. They've both grown, changed, but for the better- in Phil's mind. Tommy's always looked better in the blue colors of the arctic empire anyway. 

Wilbur sits in the plush set next to it, which was usually Phil's own. His ghostly form turns when Phil enters, dropping his cloak on the hanger. 

Wilbur quickly presses a finger to his lips, hushing Phil.

"Can you move something for me?" Ghostbur whispers, looking at Phil with pleading eyes. Phil rolls his eyes playfully and nods. 

Ghostbur points to three blankets, piled up by the crackling fireplace. 

Phil doesn't need further instruction. He takes the largest, heated, blanket and lays it across his sons, watching Tommy lean into the warmth. Heaven knows he needs the rest, the bags under his eyes slowly fading. 

He sucks in a breath when Phil thinks of how close he was to not being there in time. 

Ghostbur floats to his side, holding the most bright smile. He pats down the corners of the blankets like he'd settled it across his brothers himself. 

"They really like each other, yeah?" Ghostbur asks in a quiet tone. 

"Yeah, they do." Phil smirks, "Neither of 'em have been too good at showin' it." 

"Good, good--" Ghostbur sighs, "I'm glad. I like them a lot too." 

They both move into the kitchen, Phil placing a kettle on the furnace and lighting it to warm up some water for tea. As it warms, Phil leans against the counter and looks at the mirage of his son, the phantom. 

"Ghostbur, can I ask you something?"

Ghostbur perks up, fiddling with the corners of his big yellow sweater, "Of course!" 

"Do you..." He trails off, thinking of how to word his question, "You think I'm a good dad?" It comes out more broken then he wants it to. 

His son's face falls, blue tinge to his cheeks, "Phil..." 

"I know." Phil says, "I know it's a bit silly." 

"The best." Wilbur whispers, voice earnest and insistent, "You've always been the best. Even Alivebur knew that."

"He did?" Phil chokes out, ignoring the weak desperation in his tone. 

"It was the only thing that kept him going sometimes. But uh. Sometimes the world is meaner than your dad is kind." Ghostbur shrugs, frown playing on his lips. He pushes those thoughts away and walks over, resting his head on Phil's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his torso. 

"I love you, you know." Ghostbur mumbles, "Always have." 

Phil lets his eyes shut for a moment, embracing the cold semi-translucent man the most he can. The cold tinge to the air can make a soft border of a body in his arms, to the point where Phil can feel the arms sliding around his back. His family is different. But they're happy. And Wil... he's finally happy too. 

"I love you too, son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's healing. Maybe things are broken, wrong, have a rocky start. But that never has to be their legacy. You are never the person you were yesterday, and in that way-- there is always a chance to reinvent. 
> 
> Maybe you won't be happy, but you'll be one step closer. 
> 
> Love you all! Thanks for supporting the series!   
> <3 <3
> 
> -R


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